


The Demons We Will Bare

by jacks_destiel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ALIVE!Remus, Alive!Sirius, Angst, BAMF Harry, Draco is surprisingly comfortable in the Muggle world, Draco strips!, Drarry, F/M, HP: EWE, M/M, Minor Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, but Merlin is it painful, hiding in the muggle world, mostly canon compliant but i could not kill sirius, notice-me-not, sub!Harry, tattooed!Harry, the war is over, we could all be grown-ups about this but where is the fun in that, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8380843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacks_destiel/pseuds/jacks_destiel
Summary: Evan "Ink" Jameson works as a tattoo artist; actually, he owns the shop (Fangs and Phoenix), but only one of the other artists knows that. His designs nearly come to life- it's like magic.Luc Black owns the new club, Hawthorn, and it does surprisingly well. Of course, the inhibition-loosing magic laced around the place might have something to do with that.The war is over.But the pain did not fade.Both Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy have fled the Wizarding world for the Muggle one in hopes of abandoning their fame (and infamy) for relatively normal lives and new identities. They used each other to escape, and they (sort of) gracefully parted ways. They know that the other is out there, just not where. But Merlin, they never did imagine that they would find the other- at least not so soon.





	1. Plain Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I'd just like to remind everyone that I don’t own Harry Potter or any of the other characters in the Harry Potter franchise. (Unfortunately,) Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling (who is a writing goddess). There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. (Again, an unfortunate piece of information. If I owned any of the Harry Potter characters or plot lines then I would not have to rely on grants and loans and other tedious processes to attend college. I would have uber amounts of money to do with what I wish. But I don't, so.) This fictional work is for entertainment purposes only.

It was just after the war- just after that final battle had been fought, and suddenly everything was right in the world again.  
They were wrong. It was not alright.

Nothing would ever be the same.

*

Even after the ways things had worked out, the last thing anyone would ever expect to see the shock of white blond hair doing was slumming it in Muggle London, smoking cigarettes and opening up a bar. Luc Black had come from nowhere, could be found nowhere, and hoped he would remain nowhere for a very long time.

*

Makeup did wonderful things- it would hide even the nastiest of scars that magic would not touch. A long overdue haircut and a switch to contacts worked wonders as well. Still, even if the stylized black spikes with crimson and white tips threw off the scent, surely someone should have recognized Evan Jameson's wide and brilliant jade eyes while he tattooed the ordinary with extraordinary- dare say, magical- designs.

*

Honestly. They should have been recognizable. They should have been found. Anyone with the sense of a flobberworm could have noticed.  
But that was just what the magic accomplished- a subtle variation of the Notice-Me-Not.

They could stare them right in the face, but unless it was known ahead of time who they were, no one noticed.

Merlin, how good it was to not be noticed.


	2. The Escape of Reinvention - Part 1

The trial ended with hard and biting sort of finality. There was a brief window of silence, but it was just as deafening as the chatter that began soon after. The bang of the gavel, along with the last words of the Wizengamot’s Chief Warlock, rang in his ears. _Less than twenty-four hours_ , Merlin, what was he going to do? His heartbeat pounded in his ears and, when combined with the low buzz of meaningless chatter and excitement filling the chambers, it was no surprise that he missed the moment in which the person he wished to face least filled the space directly in front of him.

"I bought a flat." Those green eyes were so serious, so earnest, that it took Draco a moment to work around the absurdity of that statement.

"Excuse me, Potter?" There—he could reclaim some scrap of his dignity with the implication that the other’s statement was mad and completely unwarranted. It probably was anyhow, but it was entirely possible that he had missed some sort of opening statement from the dark-haired man—after all, he had missed the initial moment of his appearance.

"I bought a flat." Alright then—it was completely mad.

"Yes, thank you. Because that cleared everything up,” he said back to him, letting the reply ooze with sarcasm and condescension. Draco let his displeasure show. His hallmark sneer bled through the stoic Malfoy mask that he had spent hours holding. “Prat.” The last-minute insult seemed to throw both men for a moment. Apparently, the trial—no matter the humiliation it had entailed—had not evened out the slate for the childhood rivals quite yet.

"Could you not be a self-righteous bastard for a few moments?” Draco gave him an amused look, with one pale eyebrow cocked, and the sneer quietly became a smirk. The offended man let out a short breath, and he ruffled his fingertips through his wild black hair. “I have a,” Potter seemed to struggle for a moment, searching for the right word, “proposition for you."

"You're not my type." There was an internalized snort that came with quick Draco’s reply. Where was Potter going with this?

"Get over yourself, Malfoy." There was a strange gleam in Potter’s jade eyes. Was he offended or amused? In the end, it didn’t matter because the fire that shone there was enough to make Draco nervous—Malfoys did not become nervous. He didn’t have time for Potter to play games with him—he didn’t have time, period. Sweet Morgana, how was he going to accomplish everything that he needed to in under twenty-four hours?

"Look, Potter. Bloody well good and all that you spoke for me, but if you didn't notice, I've been shunned." He tried—he had—to keep mask of the Ice Prince in place; his anger had other ideas, so Potter witnessed his break.

"Shunned? Merlin, that's the word you're going to use?" Draco did not see the humor in the situation. How dare Potter laugh at him? Who the bloody hell did he think he was?

"What else does no contact with the Wizarding world mean, Potter?" Draco’s patience was wearing thin; he didn’t know why he was still humoring this conversation—that’s all it was at this point, humoring Potter. He needed to go. He couldn’t even contact Narcissa—his own mother, gods the indignation—for help.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." Draco refused to let that mean what he thought it meant. He had no right—Potter had no right at all to assume such things.

"Circe, I'm not sleeping with you to revoke my banishment." Potter may well have been the bloody Savior, but this was crossing a line. Malfoys did not whore themselves out at the first sign of trouble.

"Merlin's beard, Malfoy!” Potter had the audacity to look appalled. Had Draco misread the comment? And what would have been so bad about sleeping with him? —he was certainly attractive enough. “Just shut up for one bloody moment!" He ruffled his hands through his unruly locks again—did no one ever show the git how to use a bloody hairbrush? Who let their Chosen One walk around looking like that?  
"I'm leaving it too." Potter was quiet when he said it. The abruptness of the comment broke through Draco’s internal rant.

"What?" It was the final straw for the Malfoy mask—it shattered completely, leaving behind an incredulous look on Draco’s face. What the hell had Potter meant by that? 

"The war is over. I'm done with it all,” he replied—bitterly? “I want to leave." It wasn’t an afterthought, but it was said with the same sort of pause; it was a sad statement—one that was not befitting for the Savior of the Wizarding World. Potter seemed to shake off his moment of melancholy, and continued in a more upbeat fashion.  
"You need a place to stay, and someone to show you the ropes." The second half of that statement made no sense. It was nearly a bad as the abrupt declaration Potter had made in lieu of an introduction. Was Potter finally cracking? The almighty Savior finally falling off his pedestal? 

"What ropes?" Maybe there was some truth to the rumors that the Daily Prophet had spread during the war. Draco let his confusion show in both the question and the expression that he gave the other man. This was the last thing he needed—humoring the man was one thing—if he was going to waste time, might as well do it thoroughly—but if he was losing it, then this was the last place he needed to be seen. People might accuse him of causing the hero’s downward spiral—a wandless Imperious or Confundus charm—and then where would he be left? He should count his blessings here—things could have been much worse than banishment.

"Gods Malfoy, it's a Muggle saying. And that is exactly the sort of thing that I'm talking about,” Potter answered him, with a chuckle. The git acted as if Draco were the mad one.

"Why would I agree to this?" Draco bit it out in a tone of exasperation. The burning question that he should have started this damn conversation with. That nervous feeling was back—unbecoming of a Malfoy; in that same breath, he realized, not that there was much left of the Malfoys anyway. 

"Because, Malfoy, I am probably the only Wizard willing to risk themselves talking to you,” Potter told him slowly. Good. He did understand, then, that this was a proper banishment. “Let alone offer you a place to stay. And you're going to need a hand in setting yourself up in the Muggle world.” Draco supposed that this was true. He gave Potter another amused look, not letting him see that he was beginning to find this arrangement suitable.  
“It doesn't have to be a permanent arrangement," Potter added. There was a strange, pleading quality to his afterthought. "What are they going to do, throw me in Azkaban? I'm their precious Chosen One." It was certainly bitterness; just what had the Ministry done to their poster boy to make him rebel like this?

"Why are you even offering, Potter?" 

"Because we were both screwed over by this damned war.” There was more to the story than that, but Draco reconsidered probing for more details until later. Potter continued after a moment, with an amused smile. “Consider this a redo. For that handshake that I refused."

"Don't think that this makes us friends, Potter." Draco hoped that his reply came out evenly—there was anger underneath his statement—not much thought, since he seemed to be accepting whatever this was that Potter was offering him.

"Prat." Potter grinned at him. He cocked his head curiously, then the amused expression returned in full force. "We could be, you know? Friends. Eventually." Potter was off his bloody rocker.

"The Savior and a Death Eater? What a pair we would make." Draco tried to make him see the absurdity of his ludicrous proposition. "I can see the headlines now." The press would eat them alive. Frankly, he was tired of the press—Potter should be too, if their time in school was anything to go by.

"That's only if they can find us afterword,” Potter reassured him. Just where would they be hiding? If Potter could have that kind of confidence, then he supposed that he could show some as well. 

He noticed a flicker of movement behind Potter—what was that Muggle saying, speak of the devil and he shall appear? Potter turned to look over his shoulder, briefly grimacing when he realized that it was indeed a crowd of reporters—apparently whatever rule of decency that allowed for privacy that they were following was about to expire.

"Let's give them something to talk about. One last, fuck you." Potter had that fire in his eyes again when he suggested this to Draco. The crowd of reporters moved forward, and their chatter became more recognizable—quite a few _Mr. Potter_ s, and just as many _Mr. Malfoy_ s.

Potter took that last step toward him and leaned forward into his personal space. He tilted his head down, letting his black locks brush against both of their foreheads. Potter let the back of his hand brush Draco’s cheek, before letting the hand settle down on Draco’s left hip. He still wore that amused expression with all that fire in his eyes.  
He dipped his head forward again—closer this time—letting his hair brush Draco’s cheek, while he chuckled softly into his ear. Draco suddenly caught onto the game—it was a lover’s gesture.

"You're positively Slytherin, Scarhead." Draco let the words be soft—the vultures behind Potter were going wild, snapping pictures and demanding a statement with vigor. He let them see his grin, and he leaned into Potter as well—this was one last fuck you that the Wizarding World would never forget.

"Trust me, Ferret, you haven't seen anything yet." The words were whispered right against his ear; Draco shivered. Potter’s arm looped around his waist, pulling him close. The crowd of reporters broke from whatever spell that held them at a distance—they held a strange combination of anger, excitement, and disgust. He closed his eyes, and then there was nothing but the tight feeling of Disapparition as they left the crowd behind.


End file.
